


all the bruises that he's caused

by orphan_account



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dirty Talk, F/M, Kinda, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Power Play, Secret Identity, Size Difference, Unhealthy Relationships, shiho/ann and ryuji/makoto are side
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 22:58:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11000781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Ryuji drags Akira with him to a well known popular masquerade club in which the club grants anonymity to its guests who can converse, dance, enjoy sex and other activities. Akira resigns himself to going with Ryuji, intending on spending the night in a secluded corner. However, he doesn't expect to be intrigued by a mysterious person who masquerades as a crow.





	all the bruises that he's caused

**Author's Note:**

> this wouldnt have been possible without ciqher.tumblr.com so thanks is due!
> 
> also a note: pls ignore akechi's impractical mask which is not ideal for kissing k. also i'll be updating soon. (btw i wrote this on my phone so im fixing any mistakes as i go haha)

 

 

 

The diner is cool and quiet, the sound of pouring rain is like a soothing ambient lullaby, the light streaming from the lamp over him is soft, coloring the white pages of the book with an orange yellow glow. The hiragana and kanji letters are swirling in his mind and a universe is brimming with extraordinary love and reconciliation. He picked up the novel on a whim while walking through Jinbocho, despite the fact that his book shelf back at Leblanc is stacked with books he's bought without turning past the cover page. However, this novel is pulling at him like an alluring mirage, and well, he's always been weak against seduction, secrets, and mysteries—anything that adds a layer of shimmer over the disenchanting reality. It's not escapism per se, but rather seeking the thrill of a dimension where his imagination can whir with heightened colors, sensations, and infinite possibilities.

 

The door bell clinks as another customer walks in, the _shhhh_ of the rain growing louder for a couple of seconds, but dimming as the glass door clicks in place. Akira flips the page, takes a sip from his coffee, which is not as complex and rich as Sojiro's, but it will have to do for the moment. A flash of blond floats in his periphery. It doesn't distract him much because the killer and the hero of the novel are alone in a room and they are intensely attracted to each other, their gazes heated and dark with want, need, desire. The hero is struggling with how morally wrong it will be to have the killer he's been chasing for two months towering over him and leaning down to mouth at his neck. Akira's stomach flutters. He exhales a soft barely audible breath. Just as he's about to turn to the next page, a blond head and a pair of earth brown eyes is staring upside down at him from above. He doesn't flinch, and opts to stare back, a little miffed that Ryuji just interrupted a highly anticipated scene.

 

“Is there something on my face?” He asks.

 

Ryuji grins, all white teeth and cheek. Akira cannot help but to offer a small smile in return. Ryuji retreats so he can grab the seat opposite Akira. “No, man! Damn, I was hoping I’d scare the shit outta you, but shoulda known you're too stiff for that.” He has a glass of chocolate milkshake in his hand, and a tiny motorbike keychain clutched in his other hand. Once he notices that Akira is fixated on it, his grin stretches, although this time he is clearly a little abashed. “This? Makoto gave it to me the other day. I mean how cool is she, huh? She can be a bit hard on me sometimes, but she's also really sweet and I can tell that she loves me deep inside…,” he pauses. Then he chuckles. “Deep, deep inside.”

 

Akira nods, closes the book, and resigns himself to spend the evening with Ryuji. But if he were to focus some of his energy inwards, he would have noticed that he is particularly happy and fond of Ryuji and Makoto's relationship at the moment. They started on a rocky footing: Makoto criticizing Ryuji, rolling her eyes at whatever comes out of his mouth, and generally behaving as though she finds him intolerable. As they got to spend more time with each other though, Makoto began to soften, her usually sharp edges blunting in Ryuji's presence. Now, Ryuji is admiring the keychain, smiling at a memory.

 

Then, Ryuji looks up at Akira, his eyes alight all of a sudden. “Right! I came here for a reason. Listen, Makoto and I were investigating some places in Shinjuku and we found this club... or is it a bar? I'm not entirely sure. But her friend, Ann, recommended it for hangouts. It's super cool! So basically the customers need to come disguised and wearing masks—like a masquerade! And you get to talk to people, drink lots of sodas and milkshakes, eat cake, and... you know, find yourself a date,” Ryuji drums his fingertips against the table's surface, looking anxiously at Akira, waiting for a reaction. When Akira gives him none, Ryuji sighs, frustrated. Akira feels a bit sorry for him, just a bit. “Come on man! Don't be like that! We need to hook you up with someone. I mean you're like what? Eighteen? And you've never been on a date?”

 

Akira chuckles, and opens his mouth. “No!” Ryuji interrupts. “Hanging out with Yusuke in museums and planetariums is not dating! Yusuke is not interested in dating at all, so don't pretend!” He sighs again, and runs his fingers through his shorn blond hair. He takes an angry sip from his milkshake, then looks at Akira again. “I don't get you. I mean, Haru was into you, no? Why did you reject her? I mean I know she was ok with it, but I thought you guys had great chemistry, and you were into the vegetable farms thing she had going on.”

 

Akira sets his book down, and traces the calligraphy with his index finger. A memory surfaces in his mind, unbidden. Haru and him on the school's rooftop, the sun's threads shimmering through the silver clouds. Her disappointment poignant, eyebrows knitted, lips tight and pale. The pain in her brown eyes shine impossibly bright, but she quickly schools her expression into something resembling cheer and tells him it's okay. She takes off; his sorrow doesn't. It alights on his heart and weighs it down. As much as he wants to make her happy, he knows he can't give her what she wants.

 

“Hey, Akira. You doing okay?” Ryuji's voice is laced with worry, so Akira offers a nod and a small smile.

 

“Yeah. I'm fine. I'm just worried about Haru.” He can still see the unshed tears in her eyes. Perhaps he should have went out with her, but he'd be lying to himself and hurting Haru at the same time. He is tired of causing pain to those around him. His parents' disapproval and look of betrayal still lingers in his dreams. He is reminded that he is merely one of the reasons their lives have been nothing but disappointing. His heart clenches in his chest and his words dissolve in his mouth.

 

“Ugh, man!” Ryuji exclaims unnecessarily loud. “Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make matters worse. I just want you to be happy, you know? And Makoto and I have been thinking that maybe you need to depend on someone other than yourself sometimes. It's healthy that way. Or that's what Makoto told me, anyways.” He scratches the back of his head, a light blush creeping up his neck. Akira stifles a smile; Ryuji has been mentioning Makoto in every conversation he has with anyone ever, and it's refreshing to observe how he is so enamored with her. Ryuji relaxes back into his seat and stretches his arm over the back of the chair. “Trust me though! This place is sick! It's called ‘The Velvet Room’, and supposedly smart kids go there all the time. So when I said you'll meet people, I meant... what did Makoto say? Erudite? Yeah! An erudite bunch. I mean, this is why she wants to check it out. We also bought costumes! Makoto looks awesome, but I look even more badass!”

 

Akira looks up, skeptically arching an eyebrow. “Costumes?”

 

“Yeah!” Ryuji perks up, ecstatic that he finally managed to grip Akira's interest. “Told you, didn't I? It's like a masquerade so yeah you need a costume—an outfit with a mask, and a code name, I think. Then you're all set to go. I think it'd be a great experience. Maybe it'll allow you a chance to work on your social skills.”

 

Akira scrunches his nose. “What's wrong with my social skills?”

 

“Uhhhhh,” Ryuji stammers, the tips of his ears flaring red. “Nothing? It's just that you haven't been hanging out much with any of us—Yusuke doesn't count! and Futaba thinks you've become a hermit. And please remember that Futaba, you know _Futaba_ , actually described _you_ as a _hermit_.”

 

Akira shrugs, takes a sip from his cooling coffee, and tries to pretend that Ryuji's remarks, and apparently Futaba's as well, don't have any affect on him. He glances at his phone, which has been blinking with ignored notifications; a week's worth of texts, calls, and voice messages, all awaiting a response. He quickly looks back to his cup of coffee, its rim darkened with ground coffee beans.

 

“Hey, look, it's fine. Whatever you're going through, you don't have to say anything if you don't want to. But give this place a shot. It's an exclusive membership kinda thing, so Ann and her girlfriend Shiho —they’re Makoto’s friends— can secure us a two week access card. I think she'll have it ready for us after tomorrow. That's gonna be…” He pauses, taking out his phone to check the calendar app. “18th of September. So how about it?”

 

Akira breathes deeply, and looks away from Ryuji. The black watch fastened tightly around his wrist gleams underneath the dim golden light, so he begins fiddling with it, mulling over what Ryuji suggested despite his intentions. _Masks and disguises_. What would he wear if he were to go? Something black, something that blends in, nothing too flashy or extravagant. Would he be able to initiate any conversation? He snorts. Definitely not. It makes him shiver just thinking about it and the exorbitant effort it would most likely cost to smile, come up with pleasant topics of conversation, speak for longer than two sentences—it seems like a ridiculous undertaking... and yet, Ryuji's hopeful smile triggers something in him, the book next to his coffee lying like dormant fantasy. _You're such a strange child. Why can't you be a bit more normal, Akira?_

 

He lets out a breath, and settles his hands on the lacquered worn mahogany.

 

“Okay.”

 

Ryuji's thin blond eyebrows shoot up, an excited grin pulling at his lips. “Okay? Does that mean you wanna give it a shot?”

 

“Yeah. It might be a good experience, I suppose,” he says, dread already gathering in his stomach.

 

“Alright! I'm gonna ignore how apathetic you sound and I'll tell Makoto so we can start preparing! Hell yeah! It's gonna be loads of fun!” Ryuji gears up, grabs his bag, and leaves the booth. “You wanna try and find a cool costume! Shopping online is a good option, But you can also check out Harajuku.” Ryuji smiles at him, his eyes glittering with barely hidden mischief and anticipation. “Either I or Makoto will text you to confirm the meet up. Or errrr... I'll just call you probably.” Ryuji laughs and pats Akira's shoulder affectionately.

 

Akira offers him a small smile, but he can barely feel anything besides the frantic beating of his heart. The sound of the rain is amplified for a second as Ryuji opens the diner's door and exits into the flooding streets.

 

 

 

 

Akira walks hurriedly through Yongen-Jaya, his purple umbrella's handle held tightly in his clenched palm, while his bag is hanging loosely behind his back. Most of the shops are closed, the streets deserted, no movement detectable, orange lamplights illuminating lonely spots throughout the area, and the pelting rain momentarily visible against the light. He reaches Leblanc, but instead of going inside, he stands beneath the showers for a couple of minutes, relishing in the white noise of rain as it hits the tin awning of the cafe and the surrounding houses. He's glad he had the foresight to wear his trench coat instead of his thin hoodie, but his shoes are absolutely soaked. It will be a bother to take them off, and Sojiro will likely click his teeth and ask that he takes off his shoes and leave them outside the cafe. He runs his hand through his hair, wincing as he discovers that it is slightly damp.

 

He doesn't notice it at first, but slowly he begins to recognize the distinct scent of the rich aroma of coffee floating from inside the cafe. It is so enchanting and inviting that Akira is half drawn into the warmth and the delightfully dry air. He takes off his shoes once he steps on the doormat, and pushes open the cafe door. He is greeted by the side profile of a customer who has clearly intended on staying for quite a long time. His brief case (brief case?) lies open on the cafe's counter, like some sort of dissected creature, papers and documents filling its belly. Sojiro is leaning at the other end of the counter, facing the bright colorful screen of the TV, smoke trailing from the butt of his cigarette. A cup of freshly made coffee is placed in front of the customer, who seems to be wholly immersed in his work as he types on his laptop. Akira steps further into the cafe, its crisp warmth eliciting a small content sigh from his lips.

 

The customer looks up, momentarily distracted. Akira catches a pair of inquisitive honey brown eyes before lowering his head down, and walking past the customer. He honestly doesn't feel like having a conversation, although he knows he will probably be embarrassed by his behavior later on when he is lying in bed alone contemplating the day.

 

“Hey,” Sojiro interrupts, not unkindly. “Welcome back. How was the studying?”

 

Oh right. He told Sojiro he was going to study in the library, but he changed direction last minute, and decided to stop by the diner for a quick meal, which turned into something else as soon as he grabbed the book he got from Jinbocho. He flails for a second, and gives a stiff nod. “Yeah. It was good. Did some history and literature.”

 

“Glad to hear it,” Sojiro responds. He sounds relieved, much to Akira's festering guilt. “Okay then, I'm going back home. It's early, but I got a phone call from Futaba. She wants curry, but doesn't want to walk to the cafe under all this heavy rain. Tsk, demanding child.” Despite his half-hearted complaint, Sojiro is smiling fondly. He unties his apron, and folds it for laundry. The customer notices Sojiro's impending departure, and begins to get up and pack his belongings. “Hey,” Sojiro calls out, “you don't have to leave. Akira here can keep you company. I trust him with the store.” His smile doesn't fade, and his eyes shine with amusement. That means that he likes this particular customer.

 

“It's quite alright,” the customer says, and Akira realizes that he is young—perhaps in his mid-twenties. His voice is smooth and pleasant, all rounded edges and syllables. “Forgive me. I, myself, was not aware of how late it is. Your cafe is calming and I can see myself losing track of time. Thank you for the delicious coffee, Sojiro.” He smiles easily, and Akira's heart tightens. How can he draw that smile out of him so effortlessly, as though he is dishing out spare change.

 

The customer bids them goodnight and walks out into the cool humid night, leaving behind a musky cologne and a heavy presence. Sojiro throws Akira another smile, and puts on his jacket and hat, before locking the cafe and making sure to remind Akira to switch off all the lights. Akira climbs up the stairs to the attic, its absolute darkness occasionally interrupted by flashes of lightning. He switches the sole lamp in his room and drops his bag on the desk.

 

Only when he is in his pajamas does he realize how cold he is. He grabs his box of packed clothes, and rummages through the pile he blindly selected back then. He takes out an old woolen jacket and wraps it around himself. He wishes he could have spent an hour in the hot herbal baths. It would have warmed up his body and relaxed his muscles, made him sleepy and longing for soft clean sheets. At the moment, he is high strung, twiddling his thumbs, glancing out the window, watching the old oak in front of the cafe, its branches snapping and cracking as the wind picks up speed and howls.

 

Somewhere inside his duffel bag, his phone buzzes incessantly. He ignores it, and takes a seat at his desk, starting up his laptop. He has no idea what he was thinking when he went along with Ryuji's plan. He usually has to deliberate over something like this for at least an entire day, making sure to prepare himself emotionally and mentally. But... the mere idea of putting on a mask, taking on a different visage, a countenance that is his but not his at the same time—was too appealing to pass up.

 

He doesn't want to think too much about why he is attracted to the masquerade, it is an issue he knows he can't face, so he forces it deep beneath the surface for now.

 

To distract himself, he pulls up the internet browser and types 'masquerade costume sale' in the search bar. All his friends have been hinting that he's been acting a little strange. While he usually spends time with them, takes them out to places he knows they're interested in, lends an ear or a heart whenever they need to, and hands over gifts that reminded him of them, Akira now seems to shy away from contact, the chats are almost all on-hold, suspended, and unanswered. Haru texted him multiple times after the rooftop incident, inviting him out for movies, gardening activities, and festivals, but he could not bring himself to send out a response. He hurt her, after all. Haru Okumura is a girl that every normal guy wants, wishes they can have, and yet, while he loves her very much, he couldn't accept her confession. Why would she want to see him again? Why should he spend time with his friends when he knows he will eventually hurt them? They'll grow mistrustful of him, come to mock him, hurt him, abandon him...

 

He notices his hands are slightly trembling. “Damn it,” he whispers. Not true, it's not true. It won't be like last time. He's stronger, he can be relied on. He'll prove it to himself, and then to those around him.

 

He stays up till 2AM searching for something that can resemble the kind of persona he'd like to project.

 

 

 

 

Ryuji texts him for confirmation on the morning of the 18th. “Ready to kill it ☠️?!”

 

Akira can't help but smile. Ryuji's clearly over eager and vibrating with excitement. They haven't been up to any mischief or planned any adventure in a while, and Ryuji's buzzing interest is slightly infectious. Akira prepared for the upcoming evening, his outfit ready and ironed in his closet, the mask placed in a protective box next to the case of his glasses. He's not as nervous as he was at the diner, but he predicts that it will all come back once he's standing at the entrance of the club and Ryuji is stubbornly pushing him forward.

 

He attends his morning classes; history of the world after the 1500s and major questions in philosophy, Sojiro's Columbian coffee blend keeping him awake throughout the first early hours of the morning. In the afternoon, he passes by the public baths after snagging a change of clothes, and soaks in the hot herbal baths for half an hour, making sure to wash his hair with a bottle of honey and almonds scented shampoo that Makoto got him last week. By the time he leaves, the sun is setting, and Yongen-Jaya's adults are coming back from their daytime work.

 

Leblanc is quiet, the usual customers having left to their homes to relax for the evening with their families. Akira finds a sticky note from Sojiro on the fridge. 'Closed the shop early today. There's some leftover curry. Make sure you eat something!' Akira's lips curve up in a grateful smile, he was feeling slightly dizzy surrounded by the almost suffocating heat of the baths, his lack of nutrition undoubtedly catching up to him. Sojiro has known for a while that Akira' ability to take care of himself is limited to studying and maintaining hygiene. He takes out the curry, heats it in the microwave, and grabs a book about herbalism to keep him company during his meal. He can switch on the TV, but all the entertainment shows are on a re-run and he thinks he should make use of these calm undisturbed hours.

 

When he is half way through the book, his phone rings. It's Makoto, which is a bit strange because she rarely calls him. He swipes the green button and answers, “Hey.”

 

“Akira, I hope you haven't forgotten about our date?”

 

“I haven't,” he promises. “Why?”

 

“Well, Ryuji and I are getting ready and he's worried you'll read an entire book about a random topic, while being unaware of time,” she chuckles.

 

“It's not an unfounded concern,” he says, grinning.

 

“Okay, I guess I'm glad Ryuji is making accurate assumptions. Will you please get ready? Meet up with us in front of Shibuya's train station so we can get a train that will wire us to Shinjuku.”

 

He nods absentmindedly, putting aside his book, and making sure to dog-ear the page for when he returns later and cannot fall asleep. “Alright. But will it be fine with my costume on?”

 

“Yes, it should be okay—Ryuji, that's my perfume bottle, so be careful with that, will you? Akira, sorry, but I have to hang up. Once we're at the station, I'll share my location with you. Bye!”

 

The call ends, and Akira's extremities are gradually going numb. This is a new territory that he has yet to explore, an unknown dark land that he hasn't dared to tread before. It feels momentous, an impending sense of freedom lies ahead of him, he can sense it, feel the light of its opaque edges. He takes a deep breath and climbs upstairs to prepare.

 

He takes off his clothes, folds them neatly, and places them on his bed. He puts on his grey button down collared shirt, and wears the black dress pants—something he's never worn before as he usually prefers a pair of comfortable jeans or cargo pants. He doesn't glance at himself in the mirror yet; he picks up the midnight black trench coat and feels its material for a second, its smooth almost velvety fabric is incredibly soft, and it will keep him warm throughout the nights that are incrementally becoming cooler and colder.

 

He puts it on without a second thought.

 

It's a perfect fit, and probably the most expensive item of clothing he's ever owned. Funny that he should spend this much money on a costume and not to buy an addition to his everyday wardrobe. However, he is feeling strangely indulgent and in spite of the tendrils of trepidation knitting his stomach, he is... satisfied with his appearance.

 

One thing left to do; he slowly removes his glasses and tucks them in the protective case as they'll have to remain here for the night. He picks up the mask, heart beating tremulously, and places it over his face. He breathes in deeply, and steps in front of the mirror. His eyes widen slightly with surprise. There, staring back at him, is a complete stranger—a boy who seems to be engulfed in mystery, allure, and exudes seduction— But no, it can’t be him. He looks lean and lithe, the tight shirt accentuating his dainty waist and the trench coat emphasizing his narrow shoulders. His soft waves are artfully brushed against his forehead, and his dark grey eyes are glittering with an ethereal light. He swallows past the tightness forming in his throat and unearths the ruby red gloves from the compartment in his desk. All that's left is the pair of cuban heeled boots that came with the outfit.

 

He walks out of the room, taking out his wallet from his school bag, and goes downstairs, steeling himself for an escapade he's likely going to regret in the very near future.

 

The subway is less crowded than he believed it was, so he easily maneuvers around subway goers. Before he knows it, he is at the spot that Makoto specified, opposite a waffle shop. High school girls gather around the glass case display, chatting excitedly about the waffles and crepes they'll order. Akira observes them for a while, listening to them as they recommend new drinks or foods spotted throughout Tokyo. He's just about to check his phone when Makoto texts him. He unlocks his phone and checks the chat room. “Where are you? We're waiting.”

 

He frowns, scans the surrounding area for his friends, and manages to spot a couple lurking ten feet away from him. Ryuji's blond head stands out from the crowd of black haired and brown haired Japanese men and women; he's wearing his face mask, a grey piece that is reminiscent of a fractured skull, his clothes are mostly black and grey with a red scarf wrapped around his neck. Beside him, stands a girl whose legs seem to stretch on forever in skin black leather tights and a corset with studded padded shoulders, her iron mask covering almost her whole face and Akira wouldn't have been able to recognize her if it weren't for her piercing wine red eyes. She is giggling at something Ryuji is saying, her hand covering her mouth habitually. Makoto exudes power and confidence that Akira continually witnesses throughout their long years of friendship, but he has not seen her appear so comfortable as she is in this attire. He deliberates watching them from a distance for a while. However, Makoto spots him, and instantly a wide appreciative smile pulls at her red painted lips.

 

“Akira!” She runs over to him, dragging Ryuji with her. She stands in front of him, three inches taller; consequently Akira is puzzled, and Makoto silently points down. She is wearing high heeled leather boots, laced up to her knees. Akira releases a soft, “ah.” He smiles. “Looks good.”

 

“Please, flattery will get you just about everywhere. Never mind me, though. You look stunning!” She turns to Ryuji, ignoring Akira's bemusement. “Doesn't he, Ryuji? I don't think I've ever seen you in anything other than your, pardon me, rather dull blazer and t-shirt. It gets slightly repetitive, if I'm being honest. This, however, is just perfect on you.”

 

Ryuji nods seriously. “Not fanboying, but heck yeah! This is a serious showstopper, man.”

 

Akira tries to fight off the blush that's slowly spreading on his cheeks. He rubs the back of his neck, overwhelmed by the unexpected praise. “Thank you.”

 

“Just stating what is obviously a fact. Anyways, let's go ahead and take the train to Shinjuku. Ann and Shiho are waiting for us. I hope we arrive in a timely fashion. I don't know about the two of you, but I personally cannot wait to explore The Velvet Room.”

 

Akira and Ryuji follow her as she cuts through to the train with the practiced ease of a student who knows exactly how to dodge blind uncaring pedestrians. Akira turns to Ryuji and asks, “The Velvet Room?”

 

“Yeah, weren’t you paying attention when I told you about it?” Ryuji playfully grins.  “That's the place's name. Pretty cool, ain't it? I mean just hearing the name gives me shivers. I wonder if it involves actual velvet.” He laughs, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his tight black jeans. “Yo, have you chosen a name for yourself, yet?”

 

“A name for myself? What do you mean?” Akira steps onto the train after Makoto, who throws him a decidedly exasperated look at his forgetfulness.  

 

“You're in disguise, thus it aligns that you cannot use your real name. You need something akin to a code name. Mine is Queen, and Ryuji's Skull.”

 

“We had to brainstorm for, like, an hour to figure those out. It was mentally exhausting,” Ryuji complains, memory clouding his eyes.

 

“Ryuji, don't exaggerate. We selected our code names in less than fifteen minutes. It wasn't much of a fuss really, since we drew inspiration from our costumes. But what about you, Akira? From your costume, I'd assume you'd have the characteristics of an elusive figure, shrouded in the dark, perhaps lurking in the shadows... like a thief!”

 

“Woah, take it easy there,” Ryuji nervously chuckles. “You're too into this, Makoto.”

 

“Yes, I am. When I was a child, father was often absent, and sis would be studying diligently for her exams so I used to sit in my room and create characters: heroes, heroines, anti-heroes. It was a great past-time activity. Being presented with this opportunity is irresistible, to be quite honest.”

 

“Oh…” Ryuji winces. “Okay then, knock yourself out, I guess. You don't mind, Akira, do you?”

 

Akira shakes his head, too amused by his friends' antics to be offended.

 

“Great! Okay, so, a thief, a trickster even. Can you show me your mask? Why haven't you donned it on?”

 

Akira fishes out the mask from the pocket of his coat and hands it over to Makoto. “I didn't think it'd be appropriate to wear it in the subway.”

 

“I don't believe anyone minds. They're all distracted by their smartphones to even notice you have a mask on,” she grins. The statement rings true when Akira checks around them. “That's ok though. Just make sure to put it on once we're nearing The Velvet Room. But, oh, your mask is quite incredible. I love the black detailing around the eyes. I think it would go extremely well with your grey eyes. Now let's see,' she hums, deep in thought. “How about... Joker?”

 

“Joker? I mean sure, it sounds kickass, but why?”

 

“It suits him extremely well. And it ties in with the feeling he gives off. Do you like it, Akira?”

 

Akira doesn't need to consider it. He likes it as soon as Makoto suggested it. He feels it wrap around him like a blanket—protective and secure. It occurs to him that 'Akira' can be anyone, anything, an anonymous existence lost in a sea of human desire, aggression, and ambition. 'Joker' is strength, ability to rise above the hatred and prejudice of those around him. His mother's hurled curses, and adamant disappointment flash before him; it sends a flash of hot white pain, a wound that he doesn't want to confront yet. He summons the name 'Joker' and forces the demons away.

 

“Yes. I think it'll be what I need.”

 

“Great! It's settled then. Skull, Queen, and Joker. We should arrive at Shinjuku in ten minutes. Make sure to behave yourself, Ryuji,” she advises, ignoring Ryuji's frown. “And avoid suspicious individuals if you can. If not, text the group and alert us of the situation. We'll provide backup to any of us who need it.”

 

Ryuji sighs, his eyes glowing with admiration. “I love how you're always prepared for anything.”

 

Makoto arches an eyebrow and mutters, “one of us has to be.” But Akira doesn't miss the pleasure radiating through her.

 

 

 

Their destination is more or less packed. 'The Velvet Room' is spelled on a large sign above the club's entrance in cursive lurid red letters. A queue of people decked in all sorts of costumes is formed; impatience mixed with barely contained volatile energy simmers throughout the queue, people laughing loudly, their masks a parade of an otherworldly phenomena. Makoto leads them away from the queue, beckoning them closer to the entrance that is flanked by two bouncers, who eye them with badly concealed annoyance.

 

“Kids, don't you see the queue over there?” The one on the left chides, not unkindly. “You gotta stand there.”

 

“We are aware of that, sir," Makoto replies respectfully. “However, we do have a VIP contact inside The Velvet Room.” She breaks out in a sunny smile once she spots Ann. The girl is dressed in rose red leather suit with a heart shaped cut at her chest, her blonde hair styled into two sleek pigtails.

 

“Makoto!” She calls out, running up to them. “I'm so glad you could make it! And oh my god! I love your costume. It's so attractive! Shiho has been speculating on your choice of outfits, but I'm pretty sure she couldn't have imagined something as good as this!” She turns to Ryuji and Akira, a polite expression settling on her face. “Hello. You must be Makoto's friends. It's good to finally meet you! Oh come on,” She latches on to Makoto, giddiness radiating from her. “You're kinda late. Most of the members arrived around an hour ago and everybody's mixing. There's also a buffet if you guys are hungry.”

 

“A buffet?!” Ryuji jumps. “Dude, this is already the best place ever! It's for free though, right?”

 

Akira chuckles, following the three into The Velvet Room, lightly fingering the edges of the mask that rests on his face. He's granted anonymity for one night, and whatever he's done as Akira is nullified—he can almost be born anew, criminal record erased out of the temporary existence of Joker. Nebulous exhilaration rises up in him, suffusing his whole being. It's as though he's given a pardon of sorts, a free pass. In a moment of crystallized realization, he becomes aware of why he chose to accompany his friends, and why the idea of the masquerade was so tempting. He silently decides to personally thank Ryuji, Makoto, and Ann for this opportunity.

 

The Velvet Room is dimly lit, fixed lamps glowing with faint golden lights, shimmering like floating amber. Soft jazz music flows with the ambience of conversation and delighted laughter. Joker sees nothing but a collective congregation of masked strangers. Skull laughs, awed, and begs Queen for permission to pass by the buffet. They filter through the crowd, while Joker remains behind, swiveling his head to absorb as much of the scenery as he can.

 

A waiter passes by to offer him a glass of fizzy caramel soda for minor guests exclusively. He takes it gratefully, his throat already parched, and instead of weaving through the guests and members, he sits on a handsome chaise lounge, leaning on the curled arm, his ruby red gloves contrasting sharply with the dark brown upholstery. He takes a sip from the beverage, the ice cubes clinking against each other and the fragile thin glass.

 

He places his elbow on the lounge's arm, buries his gloved hand in his hair, distractedly massaging his scalp as he contents himself with observing those around him. Vibrant colors ebb and flow, chatter and music interweaving to create an interesting symphony of oceanic noise. Despite the cacophony, he hasn't felt this relaxed and inexplicably safe in ages. No one looks his way, and few pass him by. The mask and the cover of darkness shield him from any possible adversity.

 

He takes another sip, relishing the sweet bitter taste of caramel, his eyes mindlessly scanning people, until he settles on a man whose mask is nothing like Joker has seen; the mask's red, its nose resembles a beak or a long nose, reminiscent of the traditional tengu masks. He is decked out in a princely white ensemble, the red and gold accents shimmering like stars in the dimness. He seems to be nodding sagely at his companion, his thumb resting just beneath his chin. What strikes Joker about the man is the charm that overflows from him; his elegant poise, solid confidence, and mannerisms are ineffably attractive. He is standing beneath a light fixture, his light brown hair framing his masked face aristocratically. Joker releases a small sigh. The man clearly has the same effect on those around him; Joker begins to notice that he is surrounded by what appears to be a cluster of admirers, their eyes glued to him, as though they're eagerly awaiting for anything that is uttered by him.

 

The man isn't only charismatic, but he also radiates an aura of authority and dominance. Joker reclines further in his seat; why is it that he is so alluring, Joker ponders, and why is he even mulling over this thought? He really should search for Skull and Queen, they might forget about him or leave him behind. It'd be a bother if he were to lose track of them and miss the last train back to Yongen-Jaya. His eyes look up, and he is suddenly pinned by a powerful gaze, the man in the bird mask is staring at him—although stare is a bit of an understatement. Joker is too far away and it is too dark to discern if the man is actually looking at him or someone behind him or if he is just too lost in thought and is looking far away into the distance, so Joker decides that it's better if he removes himself from the vicinity, but he has no idea where the buffet is, so he opts to texting the group on the messenger.

 

_‘Guys, where are you?’_

 

He taps his fingernails against the phone's dark screen, trying to look anywhere except where that man is standing. However, his insides are churning, and he has an incessant desire to know whether the man directed his gaze on him or not. So he gathers up all the courage he can muster, and subtly glances at the corner where the crowd is gathered. He blinks, befuddled; the man has gone away. Joker stands up, craning his neck, perhaps he missed him, or overlooked him. He takes a couple of steps forward, disappointment quickly pooling in the pit of his stomach when he realizes that indeed, the second he took his eyes off the man, he managed to disappear. Odd. He shakes his head, dispelling thoughts of the stranger—because that's all he was: a stranger, and is about to turn around, when he senses a light touch over the nape of his neck. He inadvertently shudders, a gasp escaping his parted lips.

 

“Looking for me, were you?”

 

Joker whirls around, heart thundering in his chest; he finds himself staring back into sienna eyes glinting with amusement and curiosity. The bird mask is impossibly vibrant, the beak even more outlandish than when it caught his attention halfway across the room, but the man's allure seems amplified now that he is closer to Joker. Belatedly, Joker also realizes that the man is at least half a foot taller than he is. He swallows and remembers that he was asked a question.

 

“You left your audience,” Joker abruptly says, the only thing that he can articulate at the moment, as his shock recedes. Once he hears what spilled out of his mouth, he flushes, his embarrassment mounting as the man lets out a chuckle.

 

“Audience? Yes, certainly an apt description.” His eyes seem to assess Joker, the gaze clinical yet heated. “You're new,” He deduces. “I don't believe I've seen you around here before. You are not a member, are you?”

 

“N-no,” Joker responds. “A friend of a friend secured us temporary access.”

 

“Ann, most likely. She's been distributing temporary memberships like they're free candy bars. She is, after all, quite the rebel. She deserves some credit for stirring up trouble. I've always been interested in a little bit of anarchy,” he smiles pleasantly. “However, what I'm more interested in is why you were watching me? Is it a hobby of yours? To observe others? Personally, I enjoy it, but when I'm the target of the observation, I predictably become slightly intrigued with the notion. Why would you choose me out of every single individual in this crowed of people?”

 

Joker cringes inwardly. So he's been caught. He hadn't meant to intently watch the man; Yusuke is the one who is fascinated by people and their subconscious, and Akira participated in people watching on more than one occasion. However, the overwhelming desire that drove him to look at the man cannot be analyzed or discussed at the moment. He wants to be careful with his words. He reminds himself that he is Joker, he isn't Akira, and Joker is mindful, smooth, scintillating.

 

“I couldn't help myself,” he says, and cringes inwardly. But no, it's fine, because the man, if anything, looks utterly fascinated. There's a small lift to his lips that's bordering on a smirk and his eyes are gleaming.

 

“Oh? That's a decidedly bold response. I think most people would come up with nonsensical excuses. I admire your honesty,” the man's smirk widens. “Very well, I'm Crow. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

 

Joker returns the smile, nervousness beginning to dissipate. “Joker. Nice to meet you, Crow.”

 

“Joker?” He leans against the pillar towering next to them. Joker breathes in deeply, strangely feeling like a cornered prey. “The trickster? Interesting. How old are you, Joker?”

 

Joker opens his mouth, before he hesitates. It is best not to reveal any information about himself, Makoto was very deliberate in cautioning him, and he can instinctively sense that somehow, Crow will only appreciate his candor, no matter how frank. So he inclines his head, and says, “I'm sorry. I cannot say.”

 

Crow hums thoughtfully. “Please, don't apologize. I understand. However, I regret to inform you that I am a person who's very much invested in investigating the truth, and if you plan on keeping secrets from me, I shall swiftly uncover them.” Crow pauses. “Does that intimidate you?” He whispers, his tone denoting amusement and a hint of... malice?

 

Joker suddenly feels as though his body temperature is slowly rising. He could swear he was slightly cold just seconds ago from the continuous blast of the central air conditioning. He licks his lower lip, and shakes his head. “No, I'm not easily intimidated.”

 

“Good,” Crow laughs. “That's a relief. So would you like me to list what I've detected from you so far?”

 

“Sure,” Joker easily replies.

 

“You are probably a young adult, perhaps even an adolescent. Somewhere around eighteen to nineteen. A university student. You came along with some friends, but for some reason, you're all alone; one cannot help but wonder. You also like caramel, but mostly, you love coffee. I can smell it off of you from miles away. The scent seems familiar: Columbian brew?” He smirks, victorious. “One of my favorites.”

 

Joker blinks, positively blown away. His heart seems adamant on hammering in his chest, and his cheeks are tinted pink. He prays to every celestial creature out there that his blush slips Crow's notice, but it seems unlikely, because Crow draws nearer, satisfaction and power radiating off of him. “I can also tell that you are attracted to me,” he says, his voice an octave lower.

 

He traps Joker against the wall, his arm stretched out and placed next to Joker's head, palm against the wall. He cards his other hand in Joker's hair, grabs a fistful, and buries his nose into it. Joker gasps, trembling, overwhelmed, his entire body buzzing with minuscule pulses. “You smell divine. Is that honey?” He chuckles, and a shudder runs through Joker's body.

 

“Y-yeah. Crow, what are you doing?”

 

“Isn't it obvious?” His voice is muffled with Joker's hair. “I find you extremely enticing.” His lips slide lower, settling on the skin just behind Joker's ear. At this point, Joker's entire body is vibrating; everything is hypersensitized, sharpened. Crow smells distinctly of paper and musk. It's intoxicating. Joker belatedly places his hands around Crow's waist, tentative. He's not sure they should be doing this—and he isn't attracted to men. He also knows next to nothing about Crow, and he's never done anything like this his whole life. Suddenly, all thoughts are scattered out the window when Crow mouths at the tip of his ear. Joker whimpers in a thin whine, his whole body arching off the wall.

 

_Shit! What just happened?!_

 

He feels Crow's laughter against his hot skin, and wishes that nobody heard the sound he's just made.

 

“You're so sensitive,” Crow muses. “I appreciate that.”

 

Joker places his gloved hands on Crow's shoulders, and gently pushes.

 

“Moving too fast for your liking, Joker?”

 

“A little bit,” Joker admits, blushing to the tips of his ears.

 

“Then, we stop,” Crow mumbles against his _hot_ , _hot_ skin. “But, we shall resume this at a later time. I believe I have some business unattended,” he says, backing away from him, and Joker almost misses the weight of Crow's body.

 

_Almost._

 

Crow seems to have taken note of that; he chuckles, and his gloved fingers reach out to caress Joker's cheek gently. “See you, lovely.” He gives him a chaste kiss, and turns back to walk into the crowd.

 

Joker stares at his back until Crow disappears. He touches his lower lip, blush heating his cheeks at an alarming rate. He has no idea what to do now. His thoughts are all scrambled, as though his circuit's been fried—something Futaba would no doubt remark. He needs to find something to sit on, his legs are still shaky. So he makes his way across to a velvet love seat, and slides into it, his trench coat probably getting wrinkled underneath him, but he finds it hard to care at the propriety of his clothes at this point. He sinks further into the love seat, sighing at the softness that embraces him willingly. A waiter passes by with a tray laden with the caramel flavored drinks, and he quickly snags one. Crow is definitely a strange guy.

 

Honestly, Joker begins to taste regret in the back of his mouth like sour candy. He really shouldn't be so impressionable and offer himself to be at the mercy of anyone like that. He shouldn't—it's completely stupid. So stupid and he cannot exhibit such an irresponsible behavior ever again. In Tokyo, he's supposed to be the spitting image of a model student, a boy whose grades are excellent, and who is a good citizen. He hardly doubts that Crow is anything like that. He cannot afford to be anything but ideal. And yet... there is something absolutely attractive about Crow, so captivating that Joker is certain that if he were to meet Crow again, he would succumb to his will, whatever that may involve. The mere thought of it makes him shiver pleasantly. As Ryuji would say: fucking hell. He's fucked.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
